We Are Holding the President Hostage

by Warren Adler

  “And you, Pete? What do you believe?” Foreman asked.

  “Ninety percent no.”

  “And the other ten percent?”

  “This Harkins is a snake.”

  “Our snake.” He looked pointedly at Vashevsky. “A requirement for the job.”

  “Nevertheless,” Vashevsky said, scratching his chin. “He is capable of orchestrating the event.”

  “I’m sure of that. But I’m afraid it’s out of character for the President,” Foreman said. “No way. You’re letting your penchant for concocting disinformation scenarios run away with you, Pete.”

  “All right, Ned,” Vashevsky said. “Whatever the genesis of the act, the fact is inescapable. The President is colluding.”

  “There is a knife at his throat,” Foreman said. “He’s in a double bind. If he resigns, he’s a dead man. If the man’s daughter and grandson are not released unharmed, he’s a dead man.”

  “It does limit his options,” Vashevsky said. “It would certainly limit mine.”

  “I know the man. He can be manipulated only if he allows himself to be,” Foreman said, bowing to loyalty. He owed the President a great deal. He also liked the man and respected his political instincts, the one indispensable ingredient for high office.

  “You will never know what a man will do when his life is in danger.”

  “And the life of his wife,” Foreman added.

  “That,” Vashevsky said, “is debatable.”

  Foreman blanched. The Soviets had a talent for heavy humor. Then he remembered that Vashevsky had at least two former wives.

  Vashevsky smiled and shook his head. Despite his intriguing mind, he had a limited sense of subtlety. He took a package of chewing gum from his pocket and offered a stick to Foreman, who refused. Then he unwrapped a stick and popped it into his mouth, chewing contentedly.

  “We must assume that he is acting according to the wishes of his captors.” Vashevsky chomped on his gum. “It is possible, therefore, that he is a party to the idea, that he aids and abets and approves what is going on, whether out of fear or his own desires. It is not only a matter of life and death, Ned.” He stretched out a pause with vigorous chewing. “Death is death. But life is the presidency. If he gets out of this alive, he would want to be whole. To continue in office.”

  Foreman studied the man. He had a benign look about him, kind and grandfatherly, hardly the demeanor for a tough KGB operative who had won his rank and privilege the hard way. Despite his more academic background, Foreman felt equal enough to match wits with Vashevsky. Neither felt threatened by the other. Each had learned to accept nothing at face value, to look behind the political masks and words, to distrust the apparent. And each enjoyed unraveling the puzzle of political motivation. Vashevsky, Foreman knew, was enjoying this episode immensely.

  “You have a very hard view of human nature, Pete,” Foreman said.

  “Believe me, my friend, I long for innocence. But you must remember, your President is a man under our microscope. We must know him better than you, perhaps as well as you know our General Secretary. Your President, like all of them, is a man who does not wish to relinquish control. He must have calculated that it is safer for him and his wife if he continues to hold the reins of power. He is in a better position to know what this Padre will do if he opts out of governing. Our Mafia man wants his daughter and grandson back alive. He will do anything to save them. He is also not afraid to die which makes him, in a way, a fanatic and quite capable of killing the President and his wife if his daughter and grandson are harmed.”

  “Is that a revelation, Pete?”

  “An introduction only. Frankly, I believe the President is playing the game on two tracks.”

  “Only two?”

  “And it is dangerous on both counts. For himself and the country,” Vashevsky said. “Yours and mine.” He chewed heavily for a few moments. “Ned, the General Secretary would like to see this episode ended immediately. Indeed, the General Secretary has always been confused by your reaction to hostage-taking. Your President should have taken a page out of our book.”

  “Maybe he should enlist your services,” Ned said, but only half-facetiously.

  “The General Secretary offers it,” Vashevsky said with unmistakable seriousness. “Ned, we can’t allow this event to continue. One thing will lead to another. It will get out of hand.”

  “Why can’t your own trusted people in Lebanon just go in and snatch them away from him? Your surrogate runs the show there.”

  “Our surrogates are idiots,” Vashevsky said, “and this Safari is a clever son-of-a-bitch. Believe me, we are looking for him. If only he made a telephone call. We would trace him instantly.”

  Vashevsky spat out the chewed ball of gum. “However it is done, your President must be removed from office.” He paused, then added: “One way or another.”

  Foreman turned his eyes from Vashevsky’s. A sudden chill made him tremble.

  “It is terrible, I agree,” Vashevsky said. “There were tears in the General Secretary’s voice. But I ask you, my friend, look at what we risk. Uncertainty is our mutual enemy. Better our stalemate than one or another of our surrogates acting alone. Our respective military people will get trigger-happy. This is the risk. I tell you there is no way to control these crazy people, Ned.”

  “You ought to know. Most of them are yours,” Foreman replied. They had often traded barbs in the guise of banter. But neither of them ever became angry. They were too professional for that.

  “We all agree. At least it has been illustrated that the tactic of terrorism and hostage-taking is too dangerous, too counterproductive,” Vashevsky said with an air of contrition. “We have accepted it for too long among our friends.”

  Frankness was the treasure of their relationship. Often they were the first to admit when a favored tactic went awry. Both knew that the objective of the game was to control the balance between them, to keep the tension perfectly calibrated. At this moment it was out of control, the calibration terribly faulty.

  Foreman was good at Machiavellian theory but bad at practicing it. Besides, as a man, he considered the President his friend and mentor. Although the idea that Vashevsky was imparting remained scrupulously unarticulated, it flew in the face of his value system. Did the President’s life depend on the vehemence of his objection? Did ambition presume this kind of responsibility? He was merely an advisor, for chrissakes.

  “I’m not comfortable with this idea,” Foreman said.

  “Nor are we.”

  “You’ve had more experience along these lines.”

  “I am sorry. I am only the messenger.”

  Foreman turned and walked up the path for a short distance. So they were scouring West Beirut looking for Safari. For them it would be easier to kill him, the woman, and the boy. It was certainly the road to stability. They’ve already made up their mind. Foreman was sure of that. Kill off the President by remote control. No one would know. He came back to where Vashevsky still stood.

  “Just don’t tell me it’s because you want to save the world.”

  “I won’t say it then, my friend.”

  “We’ve gone over that option as well and come up with the same conclusion. We’ll never get them out alive. Besides, we can’t stop you.”

  “Not really,” Vashevsky said.

  “Dead or alive, it won’t matter to you,” Foreman sighed.

  “It does matter,” Vashevsky said. “We would prefer to get them alive. Surely, as in your own scenario, it is most unlikely. Unless . . .”

  Foreman felt that Vashevsky was sincerely disturbed by the news he was imparting. “We did consider another aspect,” Vashevsky continued. “If our people were lucky enough to rescue the woman and her child, then we would have saved the life of your President.”

  Foreman felt a sudden burst of elation and optimism. Indeed, for the Soviets it would be the public relations coup of the century.

  Vashevsky put out his hand.


  “Some day as old men we will enjoy our nostalgia over a few vodkas,” Vashevsky said.

  “If we ever get to be old men,” Foreman said. Considering this new-found knowledge, it seemed to be an unlikely possibility.

  “You and I. No question about it.”

  Foreman took Vashevsky’s hand.

  “This Chalmers . . .” he began.

  But Foreman had already turned and started back up the path.

  33

  IN THE DINING ROOM, the Padre sat in his creased and now spotted waiter’s uniform, his back to the draperies. His features were immobile. His beard had become sprouts of gray patches. Sacks of mottled chicken skin hung below his eyes. He had not slept. The television set was on, but playing only silent images. The antique clock on the buffet registered the time. Ahmed Safari’s deadline was now only three hours away.

  “My wife?” the President asked.

  “She is comfortable,” the Padre said. “Carmine has given me reports. She is resting in her dressing room.”

  The President nodded, annoyed at his sudden feeling of gratitude. Harkins was still seated in front of his computer terminal. He was animated now, still plugged in to his covert jungle. When the President had come into the room, he and the Padre had exchanged their usual conspiratorial glances. Private transactions that did not include him seemed to pass between them.

  The telephone console on the table had a shut-off switch for all incoming calls, with the exception of the so-called hot line. Throughout the crisis it had remained remarkably silent. The Soviets, he knew through his brief discussions with Foreman, were exceedingly edgy, but apparently not anxious enough to communicate with him directly. A wise course for them, he knew. They would not wish to be overtly involved.

  He flicked the switch and the incoming buttons lit up immediately. He looked at the buttons with disinterest. He had no stomach to talk to anyone. Another fraudulent feather to put in his hat. He no longer governed. The country was spinning on its own.

  He studied the faces of Harkins and the Padre. Lie down with dogs, he sighed, too filled with self-disgust to finish the homily. Inserting his hand in his pocket, he felt the thin blade, oddly cold to the touch. He drew his hand out of his pocket.

  “Anything I should know?” he asked.

  “Can’t find Safari’s hideout,” Harkins said with obvious reluctance. “Clever bastard. He knows how to use the rabbit warrens of West Beirut. Our people are searching for him.” He paused. “So is everybody else.”

  “And our hostages?” the President asked.

  Harkins looked toward the Padre for assistance.

  “We have them,” the Padre said hoarsely. It was obvious to him that they were holding something back.

  “The Saudis.” Harkins coughed, clearing his throat. It was a blatant attempt to sidetrack the conversation. The President said nothing, knowing the value of measured silences. He must gather his concentration.

  “They’ve threatened to pull out all their dollars from the States, our people in Riyadh have confirmed.” Harkins looked toward the flashing lights of the telephone console. “I expect one of those calls to be the bearer of the news.”

  “Can’t blame them,” the President said pointedly to the Padre, who remained impassive. “There’s a lot more to this than your own interests, Padre.”

  “Not for me,” the Padre said.

  “That’s because you’re not responsible for the general welfare and protection of anyone outside your group. The Saudi King has his own people to worry about, and I’ve got to think about two hundred and thirty million Americans,” the President said.

  “The Syrians are missing in front of the Golan Heights,” Harkins interjected without looking up from his screen.

  “Hear that, Padre?” the President said. “What about the Iranians?”

  “All they can mount are hit teams. No big military or economic threat. They’re all tied up with Iraq.”

  “And the Libyans?”

  “They’ve got planes, guns, and bombs. Not overly efficient, but from their perspective they might see this action as the straw that broke their camel’s back.”

  The President looked at the Padre. “You know,” he said, clearing his throat, “you reach a point when your own life means shit to you.”

  “I know.”

  At that moment Amy came into the room, followed by Benjy. He looked at her and shook his head.

  “So you see,” the old man said, “everything one does is in relationship to one’s fear of death.” The Padre got up from his chair. He was surprisingly agile for a man who had hardly moved a muscle for some time. He began pacing the room, then he stopped and looked at Harkins, “Tell him.”

  Harkins seemed to tremble. His eyes blinked nervously.

  “He’s got Safari’s son,” he said to the President.

  “You let him?”

  “I suppose I did,” Harkins said. For the first time since he had met the man Harkins looked shaken.

  “How?”

  “Friends in Italy.”

  “That’s why you had him delivered there,” the President said.

  “I didn’t know the boy was that sick.” Harkins protested. “My people were very careful. When they saw he was having an attack they took him to a hospital in Rome. That’s why it took so long for them to report in. They had a safe house prepared, but they wouldn’t chance it. I—” he looked helplessly at the Padre “—I sent word to his people where he was.”

  “Why?”

  “He asked me to.”

  “Gave you an order you couldn’t refuse?”

  “Sometimes you have to cast your bread upon the waters.”

  “You gave no orders, Mr. President. Nor did I,” Harkins said. So the pattern was revealed. Once again, he had reacted to future accountability. The President let it pass.

  “These postmortems are not important, Mr. President,” the Padre said. “It is out of your hands. This man Safari must know that we have his son. He must know that we will kill the boy if he harms my daughter or my grandson.”

  “Only the boy?” the President asked.

  The Padre lowered his eyes but said nothing. He did not have to.

  “It is a devil’s bargain,” the President said.

  “A father’s bargain,” the Padre whispered.

  The President looked at the console’s flashing buttons, then at the television set showing images without sound. He glanced at Amy who stared uncomprehendingly. As if in self-defense, he picked up the phone and punched in a button.

  “A moment please, Mr. President,” an operator’s voice said. He listened briefly to the statical sounds of an empty line.

  “Go ahead please, Mr. Halloran.”

  Halloran! The President was confused. He had expected Chalmers. Not the head of the FBI.

  “Mr. President.”

  “Yes, Halloran.”

  The Padre had moved back to the table and sat down. The telephone conversation echoed over the speaker-phone.

  “Are you all right?” Halloran asked, his voice strained and hoarse.

  “Yes,” the President answered.

  “We have a problem.” His voice fell to a whisper. “I know we’re being taped and the speaker-phone is on. But this one is the hottest potato of all, and frankly I need some direction on this. No one knows yet. Of course, after this conversation, they’ll all know.” The man sighed. “I’m not suggesting a cover-up.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Halloran?”

  “We think we found the Saudi boy,” he blurted.

  The President felt a freezing sensation in his stomach. The implication of Halloran’s tone was quite clear. He looked swiftly at the Padre, who was impassive.

  “Where?” the President asked.

  “In the front seat of a car in the middle of Union Square in San Francisco. Body is badly riddled with bullets, barely recognizable. We have his wallet, all his credit cards, and wads of dough from the pockets. Nothing was to
uched. The message seems clear as hell. Just in case, we’ve sent for dental records and rushed the body to autopsy.” Halloran had talked fast. Now he hesitated, then spoke again, more slowly. “Point is, Mr. President, I could try to stonewall it.”

  The President held down a wave of nausea.

  “Stonewall it,” the President said vaguely, as if his mind had not fully absorbed the information. Again he looked at the Padre. So this was what they had kept hidden. This was the message. Ruthless, devious, cold-blooded bastards. He sucked in deep breaths. Hold on, he urged himself.

  “I could try, Mr. President,” Halloran said tentatively. “After all, the ID is not totally confirmed. And the MO, well it’s not ritual gangland. Usually one bullet in the back of the head. Might use that as a hook. Flimsy, though. The facts are too obvious. And the damned news people are crawling all over us. These local cops leak like hell. Mostly, I’m worried about all the Americans at risk in Saudi Arabia. I thought, even if this is not in my jurisdiction, I did not want to make the situation worse.”

  The President did not respond. He looked at the Padre, then at Harkins. Both showed no expression.

  “No cover-ups, Halloran,” the President said, clearing his throat.

  “I just thought—”

  “The buck stops here,” the President said.

  34

  “YOU DON’T EAT, YOU GET WEAK,” Mrs. Santorelli scolded. Yet another bowl of pasta had gotten cold on the table in front of him.

  “I’m sorry,” Robert said, his attention riveted to the television set.

  “You watch too much TV. Like my Giovanni.”

  It was incredible how little these momentous events interested her. He was sure she would simply dismiss what was happening as “man’s work.” The fact was that this “man’s work” was going on directly under her nose. Over her telephone lines orders were given that had a direct impact on the lives of millions of people. It was all so banal. A little man sitting at an ancient table, using an old-fashioned black dial telephone to set in motion brutal and illegal activities.